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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300584">in/vulnerable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut'>Thorinsmut</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Freaks and Lovers [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Drug Use, Chronic Pain, Community Support, Complete, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Minor suicidal ideation, No Plot, Slice of Life, Tenderness, Trauma, War Never Changes, actual anarchy, entomophagy, injected drugs, injuries, this entire fic is just an excuse to hang out in Goodneighbor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:20:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300584</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghouls are stronger and tougher than the humans they'd once been—but semi-immortality and the ability to heal instead of die from radiation has a price in pain.</p>
<p>A soldier in good power armor is a two-legged tank, a one person army—but even the toughest and most experienced power armor user can be injured if caught off guard.</p>
<p><em>No one</em> is completely invulnerable.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Hancock &amp; Fahrenheit, John Hancock/Male Sole Survivor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Freaks and Lovers [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720159</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>With many thanks to werpiper and hobbitdragon for beta! Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Going ghoul was one way to get a brand new relationship with agony.</p><p>Not just the process of turning, which was bad enough. That, at least, Hancock had been way too high to feel in any detail.</p><p>The transformation had been horrible, but it ended eventually. The aftermath... didn't.</p><p>In the schoolhouse in Diamond City, when Hancock was a kid, they taught him that skin was the human body's largest organ. For a new ghoul, every inch of it was flayed and screaming. It healed eventually, thicker and rougher than a human's, but the nerve endings remembered.</p><p>Semi-immortality and the ability to <em>heal</em> instead of die from radiation exposure had its price. The older ghouls said the first decade was the worst. After that, they said that the first <em>fifty</em> years were pretty bad. And then, they said, it got downright bearable. Hancock was Mayor, though. He was positioned to see trends and patterns, and even the oldest and best-adjusted ghouls had their off days. Sometimes Ham would buy out Fred's stock of Med-x and barricade himself in his room for a few days, seeing and talking to no one. Now and then Daisy would do an 'inventory overhaul' and hire temporary help to reorganize everything in her shop. She admitted upfront that company and something to focus on helped distract her from the pain. As for poor Kent, sometimes he just queued the Silver Shroud episodes up and let them run back to back with no commentary between, because he didn't want to get out of the memory pods and experience an intolerable present.</p><p>Before Hancock had even dreamed of becoming Mayor, back when he was a smoothskin kid looking for a hit and a laugh, he'd been aware of the ghoul drifters. One day they'd be as put-together as anyone on Goodneighbor's streets was—and another day, no different, they'd be begging anyone and everyone for <em>anything</em> to take the edge off. Some of them got weepy and cuddly on bad days, and some of them got mean. The lucky ones had a group of friends who'd all pitch in to help whoever was having a flare up.</p><p>So Hancock knew about it well before he went and survived taking the experimental chem that turned him ghoul. But he hadn't really <em>understood</em>. It was something you had to experience: going ghoul gave you a whole new relationship with agony.</p><p>Agony wasn't a quick sharp pain like a stab wound, not at its worst. At its worst, it was the low-grade ache that wore on you, day after day, year after year, without end. You learned to work around it, and sometimes you hardly even noticed it, but it was always there grinding you down. Then, when you were already raw and exhausted, here came the flare up to burn you like an echo of the original transformation—an aftershock tearing through a body that had mutated to survive the unsurvivable. Or sometimes it hit out of the blue, cut the knees out from under you to prove the lie just when you'd thought things were looking up.</p><p>Hancock could never decide which scenario was worse. Whichever he was currently experiencing, probably.</p><p>Even flare ups had their variations. Hancock had developed a system over the past five years and change since he went ghoul. His usual assortment of chems and alcohol did wonders for the everyday kind of pain, and with just a bit of tweaking to the blend he could deal with the average flare up.</p><p>So maybe he got a little short-tempered, a little manic, a little more likely to go in stabbing if someone was being a domineering asshole in <em>his</em> town. Hancock doubted anyone who wasn't as close to him as Fahrenheit could tell what was up. Nine times out of ten, Hancock could deal with a flare up by getting stoned and staying busy. He'd keep on top of the town, or he'd go haring off with Nate to make trouble and haul in caps, and eventually he'd stop feeling like his skin was burning and peeling off his body all over again.</p><p>Nine times out of ten he could deal. It was that tenth time that was the killer.</p><p>There was no rhyme or reason to when a bad flare hit; none that Hancock could discern. Maybe it was the weather change after the last rad storm? Maybe it was from pushing himself too hard, or not getting out enough? No way to tell. The overwhelming pain just <em>was</em>, for whatever reason, and the only thing to do was ride through the agony. There was no fighting it.</p><p>In a normal flare up, Fahrenheit kept a weather eye out for interesting distractions to throw Hancock at. She was great that way. She knew it was worse than usual when he limped downstairs and told her not to let anyone up to see him. Fahrenheit didn't waste breath on meaningless sympathy, just nodded her understanding and left him to his misery.</p><p>Hancock holed up in his rooms in the State House with enough Med-x and Daytripper to kill a brahmin. Not enough to kill <em>him</em>, mind. A ghoulish constitution was a lot harder to overwhelm, as he'd discovered in the worst of the early days. He didn't do that so much anymore: go looking for an easy ticket out. Life was a bitch, and she just wouldn't let him go.</p><p>Most of the time, Hancock was glad of his survival. He knew that. It was just hard to remember sometimes, when it got so bad.</p><p>The State House's upstairs windows were cracked open. The familiar sounds of Goodneighbor, his town, drifted up and over Hancock as he lay on his couch in a daze of chems. What little attention he had to spare was devoted to listening. He was dressed in an oversized set of loungewear laundered so many times it had become threadbare and soft as a cloud. Even that felt raspy against his burning-raw skin, but less rough than the fluffy blanket he was burrowed beneath. The chems had him blessedly loose and woozy enough that he didn't care very much that the movement of air against his face, and the movement of fabric against his skin with every breath, felt as sharp as ground glass.</p><p>The sound of the town outside helped, even if the faint breeze against Hancock's face didn't. The Neighborhood Watch on their rounds greeted each other 'brother' and 'sister' and 'sib' to communicate that all was well. Drifters came and went from the Third Rail, laughing and talking. Faintly, KL-E-0's distinctive tones filtered over as she made a sale, and occasionally Daisy sang out her sales pitch to call in traders and travelers who came in through the gate.</p><p>That much of the soundscape of Goodneighbor was old and familiar. It had sounded more or less the same since Hancock took charge—but not all of it was the same. Things had changed since the town's successful rout of the Super Mutant invasion. No one who helped went hungry—any kind of way they wanted to help. There were fewer beggars. Not <em>none</em>, but fewer. The voices of beggars had been replaced, mostly, by the sounds of cleaning and construction.</p><p>The Goodneighbor Free Housing Coalition was a brand new organization in town. It was an informal group of both drifters and long-term residents who'd taken to repairing and restoring some of the more broken buildings. They'd scraped together enough caps to pay Rufus a consultation fee to teach them the basics, and Nate had volunteered to brave the Boston Library and brought back a handful of books on basic construction techniques.</p><p>A couple of their project buildings were habitable, now. Nobody who preferred a roof over their head (and could refrain from assaulting other residents) had to sleep out on the street anymore. The accommodations were basic, but always getting better as people came up with projects to improve them.</p><p>Take the 'Stitch and Bitch' group, a sewing circle comprised predominantly of pre-war grannies, who spent their time taking tattered bits of fabric and scraps of yarn and turning them into blankets and pillows. The weather was pleasant, morning sun warming the town, and Hancock could hear a couple of them settling in to chat and craft on the bench beneath the balcony. It sounded like a handful of the younger drifters had brought back loads of supplies for them on their latest scavenging trip.</p><p>Normally the drifters would have been completely focused on high-value bits of scavenge and ignored the bulky textiles. The incentive of food for helping out had been enough to tip the scale. Normally, the grannies would have been too focused on survival to spend hours chatting and sewing. The ongoing free meal scheme had changed things. They didn't have to worry about making caps to eat, or to find someplace safe to sleep. There was no quota to fill, no boss hanging over them, so they just did what they could and what they wanted, and in one way or another everyone in Goodneighbor benefited.</p><p>Given freedom, people did awful, violent things to each other. Hancock knew that. Hell, Vic's old goons had been clear proof of what people did when there were no consequences—so Hancock and Fahrenheit had gone and <em>made</em> some consequences. But also, also, people had every bit as much capacity for kindness as cruelty. It just wasn't always easy to see that.</p><p>Even the smell of the air in Goodneighbor was changing. Not much, granted, and Hancock's sense of smell wasn't the best either, but it was still noticeable. The Sanitation Squad was another new coalition who'd come up with their own idea of how to help the town. Their efforts were scattered, with a dozen or more projects all being worked on simultaneously. They'd set up water catchment tanks on a few of the sturdier roofs. Unfiltered rainwater was safe enough for washing, and they were working hard on filtration systems to make some of it into human-safe drinking water.</p><p>A century of piss-soaked garbage had left an indelible olfactory imprint on the streets and buildings, but it wasn't being added to as much anymore. There were public latrines, now. They were cleaned every day, and the waste was dried, bagged, and sold to a local farm as fertilizer. It didn't go for a lot of caps, but it brought in a little income for the Sanitation Squad's other projects. They were even slowly whittling the old garbage piles down. They'd established a dump in an old sinkhole a few streets away, and were hauling it out a wheelbarrow at a time under armed guard for protection.</p><p>A handful of the less-ambitious members of the Squad had each adopted a small bit of cleared street to keep clean every day. Hancock could hear a sib who'd finished their section passing the shared push-broom off to another, and the soft <em>shhh, shhh, shhh</em> of sweeping started up out front of the State House. The Stitch and Bitch grannies called out friendly greetings to the sweeper.</p><p>Sweeping a little patch of street every day didn't take much time, but it was still helping out. It still counted. Hancock wasn't about to police what was and wasn't enough 'help' to count. If a completely fried-out junkie could spend a few minutes doing something helpful and get a free meal, well, that was a hell of a lot better than a hungry junkie knifing someone to steal their food.</p><p>And, when Hancock was up to people-watching, he got a real kick out of the traders double-taking when they stepped through the front gate to see <em>freshly swept streets</em>. Goodneighbor was never going to be as clean and classy as Diamond City or Bunker Hill, and they were still a deadly little family of freaks and misfits, but they could be a little better than they'd been. The end of the line, the last place that wasn't a raider gang that would take you in, wasn't as desperate as it had once been.</p><p>Maybe it wouldn't last. Maybe this was a brief anomaly and Goodneighbor's culture would swing back to the way it had always been, but that didn't mean it wasn't worth trying. Either way it was interesting, and Hancock planned to enjoy seeing it play out.</p><p>Hancock topped up on Med-x and Daytripper whenever the searing-burn of his ruined skin got unbearable, and went on listening to the sounds of Goodneighbor playing out below him as the comforting haze of chems swept over him again. The noise was familiar and soothing. Keeping tabs on the town was a good distraction because it did his withered heart good to hear his people thriving, and also because Hancock's healthy paranoia wouldn't let him relax unless he could tell that nobody was storming the State House to kill him and-slash-or Fahrenheit while he was down for the count.</p><p>Even stoned three-quarters of the way out of his mind, Hancock could keep track of the town. He noticed if something strange happened. The guards on duty at the gate calling out to Nate? Normal. His favorite freak coming to visit was not unusual. Even if it wasn't something Hancock had the energy to deal with, he did notice. He also noticed the uncharacteristically worried edge to the guard's voice. He noticed the familiar heavy tromp of Nate's power armor. He was forcing his aching body upright before his addled brain had even figured out what was wrong about it.</p><p>The cadence was way off. It wasn't the sure stride of a confident one-man army, it was a slow and unsteady drunken stagger. An all-natural burst of pure adrenaline had Hancock stumbling down the spiral staircase, moving past a surprised Fahrenheit even as Nate stopped at the corner of Kill Or Be Killed instead of heading through town to his place in Bobbi's old squat.</p><p>Hancock stepped out the door just as Nate's power armor popped open with a hiss of hydraulics, and the man fell out. Time wasn't reliable, in Hancock's perception. He was watching Nate sag, holding on to the wall and a bit of his power armor in a vain attempt at keeping upright—and then Hancock was right there grabbing onto him before he'd decided whether or not to run over to try and catch him before he hit the ground.</p><p>Nate's arm was heavy across Hancock's shoulders, and the rest of him was even heavier. Hancock had never been a big man, and Nate was <em>very</em> big. Maybe, at his best, Hancock could have steadied Nate—but he wasn't anywhere close to at his best. His joints were loose and his limbs uncoordinated from the chems, and the pressure of Nate's weight on him was mindblowingly excruciating.</p><p>They both fell down, just slow enough not to take real damage. All of Hancock's nerve endings were screaming, and it was all he could do not to scream out loud. Too many survival instincts kept him from that big a show of weakness, but it was a close thing.</p><p>Blood. Hancock's nose wasn't so good since he'd gone ghoul, but the lessening of Goodneighbor's other scents helped make the smell of it strong enough to smack even him in the face. There was a lot of blood on Nate's body—both vividly-fresh red and half-dried brown. Nate's eyes were glassy, unfocused, in a face gone gray and pinched.</p><p>"Hey, handsome." Nate croaked out. There was a pink smear of blood on his strong white teeth when he bared them in the tight mockery of a smile. "Fancy meeting you here."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For as much as Goodneighbor is supposed to be an anarchist haven, they don't have a lot of real anarchy going on. I wanted to fix that a little bit.</p><p>If you want to read a great plotty longfic all about anarchy, I recommend <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654255/">Freeport by Maldoror_Chant</a>. I'm not in the fandom, but it reads well as original. That fic ate my brain and broke my heart and then gave me a hopeful ending to make it better—which is one of my favorite things for a fic to do. Highly Recommended!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Being stoned three-quarters of the way out of his head just made it easier for Hancock to take half a step back from his body—disconnect and dissociate. There was a body kneeling on the street with Nate sprawled in its lap, a body in unendurable agony, but it couldn't quite touch Hancock where he'd gone.</p><p>"Oh, shit. Oh, shit! Stimpack!" Hancock shouted, and noticed distantly that it came out pretty clear and hardly slurred at all. "Daisy!?"</p><p>Daisy's Discounts carried a little bit of just about everything, and Daisy came running out of her shop with a stimpack already in hand before he even finished calling for her. She must have already been on her way with it—good, dependable Daisy.</p><p>Hancock pawed at Nate's sleeve with uncoordinated hands, and mostly just got in the way of Nate pushing it back to offer Daisy access to his veins.</p><p>Daisy's breath caught as she gave Nate a quick up-and-down, but she was all business when she knelt beside him to administer the stimpack. "What kind of trouble have you been getting yourself into now, Nate?" she chided.</p><p>Nate grimaced as the stimpack took effect. "Just... unlucky." he gritted out, crusty bits of dried blood on the corners of his mouth cracking as he spoke. "Ran out of supplies."</p><p>"I'm just glad I managed to trade for some stimpacks last week." Daisy patted Nate's belly, his leg, the places where he was most bloody. She nodded to herself, seemingly satisfied that he wasn't going to fall apart. "You'll probably live. You owe me one."</p><p>"The bill, me. Send me the... the bill. Yeah?" Hancock interrupted, stumbling to string the right set of words together in the right order. He didn't have any caps on him, and he couldn't quite pull together the brain power to remember how much a stimpack cost, but she'd know he was good for it.</p><p>Daisy turned her sharp scrutiny on Hancock. He was out of his signature getup, wasn't wearing so much as his hat or boots, and she'd seen him in enough states of inebriation over the years that she could probably tell exactly what he was on and how much he'd taken. He really didn't want to know what she made of those facts combined.</p><p>"I'll hold you to that, Mayor," Daisy said, agreeably. She always sounded agreeable, even when she'd decided to kill someone.</p><p>Hancock was pretty sure he hadn't done anything to warrant Daisy killing him, so dismissed the thought. Nate moved, arm around Hancock's shoulders tightening as he tried to sit up a little better. The burst of pain through his body almost broke through Hancock's distance. His body was shaking, and really he was lucky he hadn't eaten much of anything in the past day or he'd probably have thrown it up.</p><p>Nate didn't look any better than Hancock felt. He might not be actively dying, now he'd had a stimpack, but he was still way too gray. There were beads of sweat on his forehead, even though it wasn't that hot out. His gaze drifted around, unfocused. Hancock could only read it as pain and blood loss.</p><p>They needed to get out of the street, Hancock and Nate both. It was too exposed, too vulnerable.</p><p>"Fahr—" Hancock started to shout, looking over his shoulder toward the State House, and finished "enheit" quieter, when he saw she was already coming toward him. "We need to. Upstairs. I'm not strong enough to carry Nate, you feel?"</p><p>"Understood." Fahrenheit turned to the two Neighborhood Watch members who'd been on duty in the State House with her. "Go fetch Ham. You, find Jerome. Quickly!" she delegated. That was good thinking. Between two of the biggest, strongest men in town, they should be able to get Nate into the State House without much trouble.</p><p>Nate swallowed hard, looking from Hancock to Fahrenheit, and then around at the too-many traders and drifters rubbernecking around them. Finally, his gaze settled on his abandoned power armor. "KL-E-0?" he called to the assaultron, who'd been quietly watching from her store the whole time. "How much to keep anyone from touching my armor for a day?"</p><p>KL-E-0 made a thoughtful sound. "Sure, I can put your power armor up in my station, baby," she purred. "For <em>unusual services</em>, the charge is—"</p><p>"Send me the bill." Hancock managed to get the words out right on the first try and make eye contact with her face-laser at the same time, firm and unyielding. Nate wasn't any more up to making a deal than Hancock was. KL-E-0 wouldn't try to gouge them too much for failing to haggle, and Hancock wouldn't try and stiff her the bill. Good or bad, Hancock never left his debts unpaid. Also, Nate was sure to help pay it once he was back on his feet, so Hancock wouldn't be left to pay the whole thing.</p><p>Ham had come up from the Third Rail, then, and Jerome was just rounding the corner. Fahrenheit took charge of them immediately. A few firm words, a few sharp gestures, and the curious backed up to give them space. Hancock just sat there holding Nate. The Mayor was allowed to just sit in the street and hold his favorite freak when he was injured, right? Had to be a perk of the position. Fahrenheit got Ham and Jerome to pull Nate onto his feet, and they supported him from both sides in an awkward shuffle into the State House.</p><p>Hancock was left kneeling on the fresh-swept cobblestones, and really all he wanted was to curl into the fetal position right there. Thank fuck for Fahrenheit—she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him upright before he could even figure out if he was going to go ahead and keel over or if he was going to try and stand. He wasn't sure he would have made it to his feet on his own. Her firm grip sent a jolt of pain like a shotgun wound all the way up Hancock's arm, but Fahrenheit's quick action had probably saved him the indignity of trying and failing to stand in front of half the town.</p><p>Fahrenheit let him go as soon as Hancock seemed stable. She looked worried. Not in any way that many people besides Hancock would have picked up on, just a little extra tightness to the corners of her mouth.</p><p>"Thanks, sister." Hancock smiled, big and bright and devil-may-care. His hands were shaking something awful, but making a show of dusting himself off probably hid that a bit. Fahrenheit wouldn't be fooled, but she'd know he was all right if he could put on a good front in front of the town.</p><p>Hancock wasn't so far from the open door of the State House. He could make it that far. Head high, shoulders back, and swagger on over. If his footsteps and path of travel were a little wobblier than usual, well, everyone knew the Mayor was fond of his recreational chems.</p><p>Anyone who'd been around town when Hancock was a kid had already seen him passed out in a pile of garbage on multiple occasions. Couldn't get much less dignified than that, and they hadn't run him out of the State House yet.</p><p>He judged the distance a little wrong, and clipped his shoulder against the door frame on his way through. Hancock bit his bottom lip on his gasp, and managed to stagger out of sight before he stopped and braced himself against the wall. Just breathe. That was all he had to do—just breathe, and keep his balance. The prickling under his arms where his ruined skin was trying to sweat in reaction to the pain and the nausea from the pain really <em>really</em> didn't help the burning all over him.</p><p>There was more Med-x upstairs. Hancock would have crawled over broken glass to reach it—taking the stairs one at a time wasn't half as painful as that. Upstairs, Ham and Jerome's gravely voices asked something indistinct, answered by Nate. Their heavy steps started down the stairs, and Hancock pressed himself to the outside of the spiral staircase to let them past.</p><p>"He'll be fine, Mayor," Ham said, shortly.</p><p>"We tucked Nate into your bed safe and sound," Jerome added.</p><p>Hancock nodded, and squeezed each man's shoulder with a murmured greeting of 'brother' in acknowledgment as they passed him. He owed them. If either of them ever needed a favor, he wasn't going to forget it.</p><p>Upstairs, finally. Nate really was lying on Hancock's bed. Hancock turned away, went for his couch. All his pre-loaded doses of Med-x were lined out on the low table. He grabbed two, and the whole bottle of Daytripper, and finally shuffled to the bed to climb onto it with Nate.</p><p>"Oh, thank God," Nate said, when he saw what Hancock was holding. He reached his hand out, begging.</p><p>Hancock smacked a syringe of Med-x into Nate's hand. Delivering him some painkillers was as much thought as Hancock could spare. Nate was capable of administering it to himself, and Hancock needed his own dose. He heard Nate hiss and then sigh with relief, doing the exact same thing he was. Hancock dropped his spent syringe on the end table and then finally, <em>finally</em>, he let himself collapse.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hancock's body curled up into a tiny miserable ball on the bed, shaking, as soon as he was done giving himself the dose of Med-x. He didn't try to fight the instinct, just breathed and held himself still so no more friction from motion could give his skin the excuse to feel like it was tearing itself off him.</p><p>"That's better," Nate mumbled, shifting around on the other side of the bed. Then, he noticed Hancock. "Oh, shi— Hancock, what?" The mattress dipped, like he was rolling toward Hancock, reaching for him.</p><p>"Don't touch me!" Hancock hissed, frantic. "Don't."</p><p>Nate didn't touch. He went very still on the other side of the bed, and then shifted away with a quiet protest of old springs. "Is it a flare up?" he asked. "Bad one?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>Nate sighed. "And I was all over you. Fuck. Sorry, Hancock."</p><p>Nate had been around for a few of his regular flare ups. He knew about them, that sometimes Hancock was in a lot of pain and being touched made it worse. This was the first time he'd been around for one so bad. Hancock couldn't remember if he'd told Nate about the bad ones, but he seemed to understand anyway. He laughed, just a brief dry laugh that broke off with a groan of pain. "We're a real matched pair today."</p><p>"Yeah," Hancock repeated. He wasn't really up to more scintillating conversation. He tried to relax, to lay there and let the muzziness of the chems take the worst of the agony away. From the open windows, he could hear life in Goodneighbor carrying on as normal. Downstairs, Fahrenheit barked out a few orders to get the Neighborhood Watch reorganized after the disruption, as expected.</p><p>A kid's insistent piping voice downstairs—that was unexpected. Took Hancock a minute to place the voice as belonging to Billy Peabody, and by that time the little ghoul had talked his way past Fahrenheit and was hurrying up the stairs. Hancock pried his reluctant eyes open and turned his head to look when Billy came into his room.</p><p>Billy had a bucket in one hand, two bottles of purified water tucked under the other arm, and his thin chest puffed up with pride and determination. His gaze was thankfully fixed on Nate and nothing else, ignoring Hancock.</p><p>"I'm here to help, Mr. Nate!" Billy declared. "I brought you water."</p><p>"Hey, Billy," Nate greeted. He always had a soft voice for kids, even when he was hurt. He held out a hand. "I could stand to drink."</p><p>Billy set the bucket down and opened a bottle for Nate. His hands hovered by, ready to steady it as Nate lifted it to drink. "I'm here to help," Billy repeated. "I'm good at helping! I can fetch and carry and run messages, or clean, or read to you, or anything else you need! I brought wash water with antiseptic because you have a lot of blood on you and that's not good for healing. I can help you clean up. I really really want to help, Mr. Nate! You helped me when I was trapped, and now I can finally help you, see?"</p><p>Nate lowered the water bottle, having drunk his fill, and smiled at Billy as he gave it back. "Like the Lion and the Mouse," he said, interrupting Billy before he could continue arguing his case. Billy beamed, nodding hard. He practically melted when Nate reached up to gently cup the back of his head and continued. "But I <em>never</em> doubted you. C'mon, let's get me clean. There should be some of my clothes in the... there, in the cabinet. Top shelf."</p><p>Hancock's eyes absently followed the motion as Billy and Nate worked at getting him clean. Nate was a bit fuzzy from the chems, just like Hancock, and clearly cautious about moving from the residual pain—but he got Billy talking to him to cover for any awkwardness. The sharp scent of the Neighborhood Watch's signature homebrewed wound wash quickly replaced the smell of blood as Billy wiped Nate down with a clean rag and treated him to a rambling summary of What's Been Happening In Goodneighbor Recently. There was nothing big that Hancock didn't already know about, but there were a couple little tidbits of gossip that were new.</p><p>Soon Nate was dressed in a clean flannel shirt and loose sweatpants, with his pillows and blankets arranged just as he wanted them. Billy was very conscientious and very focused on Nate, so Hancock was surprised when he leaned in close to Nate and whispered. "Is Mayor Hancock ok?" while trying not to look at him.</p><p>Hancock himself wasn't thinking, wasn't on and performing, so the fact that he was being observed and thought about hit him as a surprise. Just went to show how fogged out he was. The latest dose of Med-x might have been a bit much on top of what he'd already been on, but he didn't regret it. Not when sharper awareness came hand in hand with so much pain.</p><p>"He'll be ok," Nate said, glancing over at Hancock with a tender look. "Hancock's having a rough day, too. He just needs some rest."</p><p>Billy made a sound of sudden understanding. He straightened up into his 'I'm a helpful boy' pose and looked over Nate to make eye contact with Hancock. "Is there anything I can help you with, sir?"</p><p>Was there anything he could help with? Hancock's first instinct was to say no, but then he realized that he was a little bit chilly. He wasn't cold enough that he'd bother getting up and grabbing his blanket from the couch, but Billy's offer meant he didn't have to.</p><p>"Couch. The blanket?" Hancock slurred.</p><p>Billy looked around, spotted the blanket, and eagerly bounced over to grab it. He didn't hand it to Hancock or place it in reach, though. He shook the blanket out and stepped right up to the bed to put it over him. Hancock tensed, flinching in anticipation of dragged fabric and patting hands—but Billy draped it over him so carefully that neither happened.</p><p>"There," Billy said. He leaned in conspiratorially. "I help Granny Mai sometimes when she has a hard day, too. I won't tell anyone." He put his finger over his lips in a 'sh' gesture with a clumsy blink that might have been intended to be a wink.</p><p>Mai, one of the queen bees of the Stitch and Bitch—Hancock definitely owed her for teaching Billy how to take care for a ghoul having a flare up, and probably for teaching him at least a little bit about discretion too. He'd have to think of something to give her that she'd like, and Billy too of course. Hancock didn't like feeling indebted. There would be time, though, once he was back to his normal sharp and charming self.</p><p>Billy had busied himself gathering up the wash rags and bucket and Nate's bloodied clothes, and addressed them both before he left with the bundle. "Is there anything else I can do? I could read a book to you?"</p><p>Nate shook his head. "Thanks, but... I think we both just need sleep."</p><p>"Ok!" Billy agreed, brightly. He hauled his bundle downstairs, and Hancock and Nate were alone on his floor of the State House again. Hancock let his eyes close, relaxing under the warmth of the blanket to the sound of Nate's even breaths. The extra throbbing sting around Hancock's shoulders and knees, from when he'd caught Nate, had finally faded out.</p><p>"Sweet kid," Nate mumbled.</p><p>"Mm," Hancock agreed.</p><p>All the regular noises of Goodneighbor, quieted both by the cracked windows and the chems, flowed over him like soothing nonsense. All was well, all normal, and Hancock was most of the way asleep when he heard light and stealthy steps coming up the stairs.</p><p>It was Billy again, tiptoeing in with a handful of books and some toys. He noticed Hancock's open eyes and nodded to him. "I'm here if you need me," he whispered, and then sat on the rug by the chair and cracked open one of his books.</p><p>Another set of lungs breathing and the occasional turn of a page blended into the relaxing soundscape very quickly. Billy was trustworthy enough, and beyond that physically nonthreatening enough, that Hancock didn't feel the need to keep close watch on him.</p><p>When Hancock felt himself drifting back toward sleep, he embraced oblivion gratefully.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, about Billy. His quest breaks my suspension of disbelief <em>so hard</em>. I can't. I can't believe that his family is living in the same house waiting for him after 200+ years. Nah. If either of his parents survived, they've moved on and are living somewhere else. Billy spent a couple hundred years hibernating in a fridge, sustained on radiation, sure. Then Nate found him and brought him to Goodneighbor, home of the freaks, because where else do you take an eternal-child ghoul? Billy has been informally adopted by a few of the older ghouls, and is a fanatic devotee of the new 'everyone helps out' ethos. He likes feeling useful!</p><p>Maybe Billy will start aging now that he's not in what amounts to suspended animation? But for the moment he's mentally and physically somewhere in the 12-14 age range, and nobody knows if that will ever change.</p><p>Anyway, that's my two cents on the matter.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The light was orange-red with sunset when Hancock woke up, and Nate was hyperventilating. It seemed like the 'I'm already working on getting my breathing back under control' kind of hyperventilating, though, so Hancock didn't worry too much.</p><p>Nate was sitting up, halfway turned away from Hancock, his fists clenched tight in his blankets. Hancock wanted to drape himself across Nate's broad back, hug him close and help remind him of the here and now. Moving reminded Hancock why that was a bad idea when a wave of fire swept over his burning skin. He satisfied himself by instead reaching over and lightly resting his palm on Nate's lower back, just to be there and touching him.</p><p>Hancock had overslept, and was more than due for another dose of Med-x—which meant that Nate was too. Pain probably wasn't helping. His breaths were slowing, but also roughening toward sobs. He was going straight from panic to tears.</p><p>"Hey," Hancock said, uselessly. "I'm here." Billy was gone from his spot by the chair, or Hancock would have had him grab another dose for them both from the table.</p><p>Nate scrubbed at his face with a sleeve, hiding his eyes against his wrist. "I'm bad at this," he said. "I ran out. Couldn't deal. <em>Can't</em> deal with it. It was just like back then. We ran out. We <em>ran out</em>."</p><p>Hancock wasn't following, and for once he didn't think that was his own fault. "Like when?" he asked. "Ran out of what?"</p><p>Nate took a deep breath, held, released; and then a second time, before he answered. His voice went deep, a vicious growl. "Battle of Anchorage. Bunch of muscle-brained yahoos in untested power armor, hopped up to our gills on Psycho. We ran out into the line of fire, and then... and then we <em>ran out</em>. Ran out of energy cells to power the armor, ran out of medics, ran out of medical supplies, out of stimpacks, out of painkillers for the wounded. Ran out of bodies to throw at the enemy—"</p><p>He broke off, forcing himself, again, to breathe. His voice was quieter but no less bitter when he continued. "Ran out of hope, out of<em> basic fucking humanity</em>. Little girls and boys bleeding out in our power armor. And they said we <em>won</em>. We were Big Damn Heroes, but we weren't worth stitching back together, were we? Weren't even worth giving a merciful death. Leave the broken body to die and recover the power armor so it doesn't fall into enemy hands."</p><p>"Shit, Nate," Hancock breathed. It didn't seem to cover the half of it, but he couldn't think of anything better to say. "Shit."</p><p>Nate's back shook beneath Hancock's hand. "Not my first forced march, injured, no supplies. You make it back under your own power or you don't make it at all. But I can't <em>deal</em>."</p><p>His voice broke on the last word, and Hancock found the strength of will to move. In weighing the cost of moving against potential relief, Nate's need drove him to move faster than his own would have. Nate couldn't deal with running out of supplies? Well, Hancock <em>had</em> supplies. There was a lineup of loaded Med-x syringes waiting on the table. It wasn't all that far away. Once he was on his feet, it didn't take long at all to grab a couple and bring them back.</p><p>"We're not running out." Hancock stopped in front of Nate and gestured for his arm. His ravaged skin was burning and melting, but his hands could be steady enough to give a shot if he concentrated. "You made it back, and I've got plenty. What's mine is yours, you feel?"</p><p>Nate pushed up his sleeve, and held his arm out trustingly. He looked at nothing but Hancock's face as he gave him the dose. Nate's deep brown eyes were red-rimmed, and his face was still grayed even despite the racing heart from his panic. He wasn't recovered from his injuries and the resulting blood loss, but he would be. He'd get there. And just so long as Hancock had painkillers, he wouldn't suffer along the way.</p><p>Nate wordlessly eased the second dose of Med-x out of Hancock's hand, and returned the favor. The pressure-points of his fingers on Hancock's arm, where he couldn't avoid touching, throbbed with stinging ice-fire, but the softness of pain relief flowed afterward to soothe it. The edge went off the agony. Hancock sighed, and Nate breathed with him.</p><p>"Water," Hancock decided, next. He turned to pick up the bottle Billy had left, when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye that had his heart leaping up his throat on pure wasteland-born instinct.</p><p>
  <em>Feral ghoul</em>
</p><p>Hancock lunged for the combat knife that was stabbed into the bed's headboard and spun, planting himself between Nate and the hiding feral that was... that was...</p><p>Just Billy, who for some god-damned reason had squeezed himself into the gap between the chair and the wall to sleep. <em>Ferals</em> did that, wedging themselves into awkward little hidey-holes to crawl out when they noticed sound or motion. You learned to spot them or you died. Billy looked just like that: barely even breathing, the way they could pass years without moving.</p><p>Hancock snarled and stabbed the knife back into the headboard with more force than necessary, adrenaline gone sour. Or maybe it was pain-nausea from having moved that fast that was making him feel sick. Nate was halfway up, fists clenched and ready to do violence though he clearly didn't know the target.</p><p>Hancock waved a dismissive hand in Billy's direction. "Damn weird-ass kid," he grumbled. It made him feel a little better that Nate did a sharp double-take when he spotted Billy in his hiding place. Hancock wasn't the only one who came over odd, seeing him like that.</p><p>"Yeah," Nate said, shaking his head. "He was like that when I found him, too. About offed him, before he started talking."</p><p>Hancock finished grabbing the water he'd been aiming for originally, and gestured Nate toward the nearby bottle of Daytripper with a flick of his eyes. Nate availed himself of two pills, and Hancock traded him for the water. That ought to mellow the mood out and make everything more tolerable for them both. Hancock folded himself, very gingerly, into the bed.</p><p>Nate rubbed his face with both hands, and tugged his thick hair into disarray. Then he shook his head and eased himself back down onto the bed. He looked over at Hancock with an expression he could only read as 'longing'. Daytripper always made him extra snuggly. Hancock wanted to cuddle for comfort too, except for how much of an awful idea that was when he was feeling the way he was.</p><p>What he could do, though, was reach over and rest his hand on Nate's sturdy bicep. Nate reached up like he was going to put his hand over Hancock's, but restrained himself and rested it on his own chest instead. "I'm glad you're here," he said. His bottom lip trembled briefly before he steeled it. "I'm glad I found you."</p><p>It was beyond unlikely that they'd drifted together on the currents of time. Nate could have died in the war, or when the bombs fell. Instead he came out of a vault two hundred years later, in the time when Hancock was around. Hancock could have died instead of turning himself ghoul, or so many times before and after. But they hadn't. They'd found each other. In this one small way, time had been kind to them.</p><p>"Me too," Hancock said. "Listen if you, uh, you want to talk about it some more?"</p><p>"I don't," Nate shook his head. "I really, really don't."</p><p>"I hear you." Hancock closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Nate's arm as he let his attention drift toward the sounds outside. "When I'm... you know, when I'm <em>like this</em>, I like to get stoned and listen to Goodneighbor. My people. They're all right."</p><p>Nate hummed an understanding sound. They settled into silence, enjoying the dreaminess of Daytripper. Outside, the banging and clanking of construction stopped as the daylight faded. The electric lights went on, and people started to gather beneath the balcony out in front of the Third Rail. Must be about mealtime. Someone had coaxed Buddy out of the Hotel Rexford; the robot's signature hum and clanking walk echoed up through the window. The Free Housing Coalition were cheerfully sharing beers and talking about the day's work and catching up with friends from other work groups.</p><p>The noise picked up sharply with excitement when the food made its appearance. There was the scraping of a table getting set up, and then someone rang the dinner bell. It had very quickly become a staple of the Goodneighbor community. Twice a day it rang out, feeding anyone who'd helped out in any way.</p><p>"Billy, dinner!" Hancock called to him, not wanting him to miss the meal, but the bell had already woken him up. He must have had his ear tuned to it, when nothing else had bothered him. It was embarrassingly comforting that Billy didn't move in the creepy-crawling way a feral would, getting out of his hiding place. He scooched out on his butt, and then stood and stretched hugely.</p><p>"I'm hungry!" he said. "Should I bring you and Mr. Nate some dinner, Mayor Hancock, sir?"</p><p>Nate nodded, so Hancock did too. Med-x always killed his appetite, but he knew he'd feel better if he ate, and Nate would heal faster if he was fed. Hancock directed Billy to a minor cap stash in a cabinet. Twenty caps should more than cover two meals for freeloaders—Billy himself obviously got to eat for free.</p><p>Downstairs, friendly conversation was flowing around the food and beer, with a theme of 'how did you help today?' Not in so many words, most of the time, but the theme was clear. 'How's that roof repair going?' 'your spot of the street's looking spic and span as usual' 'did I hear you finished another blanket, today?' 'guarding a load of garbage out to the dump? You've got more nerve than I do!'</p><p>Most people had done a little something, and were proud of it. Nobody was getting turned away for food, though. Hancock heard more than one stumbling explanation of 'no really I was gonna but then—' cut off by an understanding 'Well, I'm sure you'll manage it tomorrow. Let's get you a bowl.' The food-service volunteers were soft touches, but a few freeloaders weren't going to break the system. Hancock couldn't say he liked it, but he'd much rather put up with some freeloaders than he would have anyone enforce rules about what counted as 'helping out'.</p><p>"Evening, Billy!" Hancock heard when Billy made it to the front of the line. "Where have <em>you</em> been all day?"</p><p>"I'm fetching and carrying for Mr. Nate while he's hurt!" Billy announced, brightly. "I have caps for a meal for him and Mayor Hancock."</p><p>Billy was fussed over and praised as 'such a good boy', and set up with a tray. He carried it very carefully and slowly up the stairs and into Hancock's room, and breathed a sigh of relief when he set it safely on the end of the bed without spilling. He also had a thermos on a cord around his neck.</p><p>"Tato stew and ripe mutfruit!" Billy announced. He handed them each their bowls, then gave the thermos to Nate. "And Daisy sent up some tea. She said it was bloodleaf and, um, ash flower? To help you heal." He nodded to himself, and sat cross-legged on the end of the bed to tuck into his own bowl.</p><p>The stew was thick and gray, and not particularly tempting to Hancock's suppressed appetite. Nobody who helped around town went hungry, but that didn't mean the free food was all that varied. They used what was cheap and plentiful. Lots of tatos, lots of dog, baby mirelurk and mirelurk eggs pretty frequently. Today there was some carrot in the stew for flavor, and the main protein was radroach. Somebody must have run into a nest of them, out scavenging, and donated the meat. The result was nobody's favorite, but it was warm and filling. Half a perfectly ripe mutfruit per person as dessert was the most exciting part of the meal.</p><p>Food was food, though, and Hancock had gone without enough to appreciate it. Nate wolfed down his stew like he was starving, scraped his bowl clean, and then gratefully accepted the final third of Hancock's bowl on top of it. Hancock took the thermos from Nate and unscrewed the lid, sniffing it with what little sense of smell he still had.</p><p>The tea was red like bloodleaf, but it smelled like the cucumbery bitterness of ash blossom. He stole a sip. Bloodleaf got used for blood-replenishing, and ash blossom fought infection. Daisy was a real sweetheart for having thought to send it up. Hancock was usually all about the stronger chems, but he wasn't going to turn his nose up at a healing tea. It wasn't sweetened, though, so he didn't steal much more than a sip, instead handing it back to Nate.</p><p>"Can't hurt, might help," he said, and gestured for Billy to hand him a piece of the mutfruit.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The flare ups came out of nowhere, and they left the same way.</p><p>Hancock stopped burning through the Med-x so hard, and Nate did the same. They got better together. By the end of the second day Nate felt strong enough to fetch and carry for himself, and sent Billy off with his thanks. Hancock's seared skin had calmed enough that he could cuddle, so long as Nate only held him and didn't move too much.</p><p>On the third day, Hancock rose from his bed feeling mean and dangerous. He'd survived another flare up. If his own brain and body still couldn't kill him, <em>nothing</em> could! He left Nate snoozing in a messy pile of blankets with bite marks all over his back—it was a damn good look on him—and headed downstairs.</p><p>Fahrenheit looked Hancock up and down, nodded, and poured a second mug of roasted razorgrain coffee. She bared her teeth in a vicious grin as she handed it to him, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes with the smile. Hancock was back in his signature getup, fresh washed, and on barely more than his usual chemical assistance. There was still pain, but nothing he couldn't handle. It just sharpened his edges.</p><p>Hancock toasted her with the mug. They leaned against the counter together, close enough to brush elbows and shoulders as they drank their coffee, just enjoying each other's presence.</p><p>"Got anything interesting for me?" Hancock asked. At times like this he needed action and distraction. He gave it a 50/50 chance that the pain would spike and drive him back to the sweet embrace of Med-x and his bed by the end of the day, but he'd take those odds. For the moment, being up and <em>doing</em> felt better.</p><p>Fahrenheit knew what Hancock was, and how to use him. She didn't second-guess or try and coddle him. "There's a trader been bellyaching about the new cost of doing business," she said. "Normally it wouldn't be a problem, but her caravan guards are old friends of Finn's. They've been spreading it around that you've gone soft. That you're ruining the town with your 'helping out' scheme, and ought to be deposed." She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "Personally, I think they're just pissed they can't get away with their insurance scams anymore."</p><p>"Oh, really?" Hancock purred. "You think I can charm them with my silver tongue, or—" he tested the edge of his favorite switchblade. "—are they going to need a dose of cold steel?"</p><p>"Try the first, but don't rule out the second."</p><p>"I never do." Hancock tucked the switchblade into his sash, set his hat at just the right cocky angle, and swaggered out of the State House and onto the changing streets of Goodneighbor. His town.</p><p>It was play time, and Hancock was <em>on</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading!</p><p>Please drop a comment if you can, I'd love to hear your thoughts.<br/>&lt;3<br/>TS</p>
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